
The Pocket Rocket leaves Pearland and a few hours later enters into Moulton, population 944. Nothing is here. The most major street is deserted except for three cars and an open doorway to the corner bar, Ole Moulton Bank, a turn of the century bank turned bar/club/vintage guitar emporium and our venue for the night.

We’re unpacking the van, changing into our finest Texas attire. Danny’s sporting a hat and vest, Nate and Josh are both wearing plaid and Nate’s got a vest, too. A teal pickup drives slowly by. “what kind of music do you play,” asks one of the sun-weathered older gentleman in the truck. “do you play anything like this,” and he cranks the stereo so we can listen to the country music inside. Harvey (by now we’ve introduced ourselves) opens the door for us to hear better. Of course we can play this kind of music. Johnny Cash, Buddy Holly – we’ve got you covered!

Harvey and G.R. (the future mayor of Moulton) proceed to spend the rest of their night with us. I dance with both gents and they very politely ask if I am married before swinging me around to the birds chirping outside like there is loud music and I have no legs.
Jim is the owner of Ole Moulton Bank and definitely one of the hippest dudes around. He’s the luthier (guitar-builder/repairer) for Greg Allman and he’s as easy on the eyes as Clint Eastwood.

During set up and sound check, Josh mentions he’s sorry he didn’t bring cowboy boots and a hat to tonight’s show. G.R. disappears, returning moments later with his own beautiful custom black and red initialed boots and in seconds, Josh is tucking his jeans into the leather goods while sporting Jim’s cowboy hat.

We play a little of everything for these cats. Some blues, some Buddy, some country and of course, Rock and Roll, sneaking in an original tune between every few. They seem to dig it, and we play great among the rows of mounted awesome guitars, mandolins and a variety of other stringed instruments.
After packing up our gear into the Pocket Rocket, it’s time to head onward to Austin where the La Quinta Inn awaits our arrival. So we say our goodbyes to everyone in the bar and laugh off their suggestions to stay on major highways and such. Then we’re back in the van, the Garmin has been programmed to the next destination and we’re off.
Nate: Jim said he bought it for a song
Josh: And not even a good song
Nate: It was in b minor
Josh: A sad key, but not the saddest key of all.
Danny: What’s the saddest key?
Nate: D minor.
We are in the heart of Texas. We almost just hit two possums, and that’s the church from footloose on our right. Missed our turn and made a three point turn in front of a horse one yard away.

Now things get a little crazy. We’ve already reminisced about the evening, the characters we’ve met (Harvey, GR, Jim, Cynthia and Annette) and the ones who we spoke to before leaving. We realize we need to get gas, but figure we’ll pass something soon. We don’t. It’s really isolated wherever we are and we’ve barely seen a house for miles, let alone any sort of gas station. After awhile, Danny turns around as the car begins to sputter.
Yes, we’ve run out of gas (and this is where my mother stops reading if she’s dared to venture this far). We’re on FM 1296 (not a major highway) near CR 447 (barely a dirt road) in Waelder, TX.
As the vehicle rides it’s last fuel injected yards, we put it into neutral and Danny throws the Pocket Rocket into park so the boys can get out and push while I sit on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals and steer us out of the road onto the grass. Thanks to our buddy Greg, we have digital road flares (to alert attention to the beast), two removable battery-powered lights and a video camera (lights = very helpful all around, camera = good for documenting our untimely death on the side of the road in Texas).

In this part of the grand state of Texas, we are truly surrounded only by land and stars. And coyotes. Throngs of howling coyotes. Nate sniffs the air, channels his best farmer mojo, and declares they are still about ten miles away. In the meantime, we make Texas Chainsaw Massacre references (which only Danny had seen) and imitate Blair Witch Project scenes, and my emotional state vacillates between that of a horror movie and an Adam Sandler movie.
We make a movie. We look at roadside cactus. We see four cars drive by in over and hour. We find the Big Dipper and Orion bright in the sky. We wait.
We sing songs, redirect lost emergency vehicles via cell phone and Garmin (sponsorship?), eat Eileen’s precious bags of Ruffles and Chips Ahoy, and look at the stars again and again until Nate says “the coyotes are getting closer” and has us get in the car.
Finally, a massive rig shows up to haul us, along with a local policeman from Dearborn, MI. Ira, the wrecker who grabbed us through triple A and a bonafide cowboy complete with the hat, works under our van (remarking that it’s good he got here before the coyotes did), he works over his truck, and eventually that massive fucking van is atop his truck bed and we are nestled comfortably in the cab. Johnny Cash is blaring on the stereo and Ira speaks in such a thick accent, that I can only understand every few words and soon give up to hide in Josh’s shirt as Ira takes 15 mph turns at 80. He offers to drive us all the way to Austin, but we decline and instead he takes us in the right direction to a Love’s gas station where we fill the tank, eat late night Subway sandwiches, and get back on the road to Austin, narrowly missing a deer and a drunk driver on I-35 North.

Thanks, Dashboard Jesus, for keeping us safe this fine evening in Texas.
Goodnight,
Erika